


Arkham Asylum Files

by SmutWithPlot



Series: Patient Files: The Joker [1]
Category: DCU
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-21 04:15:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 14,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4814567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmutWithPlot/pseuds/SmutWithPlot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of musings, rants, therapy sessions and other notable events. Set at Arkham Asylum, castle of the Clown Prince of Crime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The New Doc

"Home again, home again, jiggity jig."

...Life in Arkham doesn't change much. Your room number _might_ change, particularly if you destroy your cell, but they like to save a spot for you. Lunch is like that, too. Half of why I make a note to make it to the cafeteria first and sit where ever the fuck I please, and see who wants to make something of it. They rarely do. The guards change. You get your regular faces, with a little mix up to keep things interesting, but you can learn them all in about two weeks. The docs are fairly consistent. You get one doc, and they see you two to eighty thousand times a week, depending on your patience. I have no patience, but then, I'm also pretty insufferable, so they usually cycle out my docs periodically when they feel they've hit a brick wall. Or, you know, _literally_ hit a brick wall. I've a tendency to get violent. Paranoid schizophrenia, one of them said. People like paranoid schizophrenia a lot these days. I'm just waiting for one of them to say I have Lupus.

It's March. The allergies are killer if you bother to go outside, which I usually don't. Weather's not too bad. It rains and rains and rains, but it generally does in Gotham. Coastal region as it is. Nice and cool on a good day, otherwise very cold. Even the summers don't get incredibly hot. Temperate and predictable.

They switched out my jumpsuits since the last time. They're actually a bright orange, makes me feel a little special. The fact that I'd set the ones I was wearing on _fire_ last time I was in here might have something to do with it. Come to think of it, a good dozen inmates all have new jumpsuits, and that makes me smile. They don't let me have my greasepaint when I'm in here, but I smile anyway. Kind of can't help it, what with the scars.

It's a Tuesday. Rumour mill says there's a new doc on the island. Pretty young thing, too. And not just because she's a woman, actually pretty. You can tell, because even the ones that _aren't_ sex fiends are genuinely interested. As it is, I spent most of my morning snoozing, breakfast, and then watching cartoons in the library. The ones who were outside got to see her come in from the ferry. Am I disappointed? Not particularly. I'll see her eventually.

I always see them eventually. I'm a burden they prefer to share, and also I'm pretty sure they have a betting pool on what cock-and-bull story I'm going to give the next guy. Girls generally get the sob story about the wife, and my defenseless mother being slaughtered before my very eyes. None of them are absolutely true, but might have a grain of honesty in them somewhere. There are recurring themes, but I have such fun tweaking them as I talk, I tend to forget how they originally went. Like an old joke that's been retold and revised and updated over the years, it's hard to tell how it went when I first heard it. Not that it matters. The past has very little influence on real life. They want to convince themselves that my decision-making was because of some tragic, outside influence, because it means that they can now reverse the process with their own influence. It's all folly, but it's free food and shelter and some entertainment, if you're desperate. A place to sit and think without worrying about paying electric bills and feeding henchmen. Gives me time to plot up my next plan, so I can go out there guns blazing and waste no time or resources taking care of it. I can usually do half my work here. The librarian is convinced I've an addiction to real estate shopping, and counts me on her list of nerds and history buffs, but no one ever listens to her.

Pretty hilarious, actually.


	2. Patient Interview: First Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Joker meets the new Doc.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually an almost direct lift from a scene written by myself and my wife, me as Joker, and she as Harley. I'd give her credit, but she doesn't have an AO3 account. If you like what you read, we write RP on Twitter as @JackWhiteface and @TwistedDocHarls, which is actually the source for most of this. As such, it kind of switches in first person from him to her and back. It can be a little confusing, but short of rewriting this entire scene (and accordingly ruining some of its integrity -- and to be fair, I had attempted it) I am just posting it as it is, albeit in novel form instead of the direct dialogue-and-action way we usually do. It can be confusing, but there isn't a really great way to switch mediums. If Harley seems a bit... I don't know. Too trusting? That's a character flaw. She treats him like a person instead of an animal, which speaks to the heart of her character -- in that she is far more forgiving than most. Ivy's certainly said it's why Harley is her only friend. It makes her seem a bit stupid, but that's typical, people assuming she's stupid and not secretly -brilliant-.
> 
> Also: We did try to keep the dialogue accurate to the written canon -- pointedly, the patient interviews from the Arkham Asylum games, and the comics, or whatever else we were stealing from. Particularly for the first meeting. That's pretty important.

...Someone's looking at me. I don't look up right away. I put my pen in my mouth to bite at it, a nervous gesture that isn't really mine, as my eyes glance over the clues. I shift a little in my cot, so I can just see her beyond the newspaper. She _is_ cute. Blonde hair in pretty little curls, all buttermilk and softness, with some of that hard detail of hairspray up front for a nice frame job. Her eyes are a bright blue — a recessive trait. Petite. And full of spunk, if that eager grin means anything. Gotta be careful with the excitable ones. They can take punches and roll with it. I pretend I still don't see her, and scribble in another clue.

How odd. He doesn't seem to notice me. Could be that he's so consumed by the crossword puzzle in the newspaper. Stepping away from the door with an intrigued, tilted head, I ask the guards that I would like to meet with him in my office. An office that wasn't even set up. An office I had yet to find. The guards leave and return with a straightjacket, unlocking the door to his holding cell. I take this moment to rush off and find my office.  
A fresh, new start. It's raining. Streaks sliding down the window outside. Taking the hand mirror from my purse, I check my hair, my make-up, and stash it into the small drawer of my desk before sliding the office chair out from behind. Taking a seat, legs crossed, clipboard, pen, and paper on my lap as I await the arrival of The Joker. 

* * *

 

“Alright, Joker. You’re up to bat.”  
“Oh, but I’m _so close_ to figuring out what 16 across is, I can feel it.”  
My eyes beg, but Cash just leers.  
…He crosses his arms. “I can wait.”  
I can wait, too. We take a moment to humour each other, Parker standing in the hall, hands fidgeting on the straightjacket. I make it to 237 before I sigh, and sets down the paper, growling. “Oh, _fine_. Be that way.” I assume the position, and Cash unlocks the handcuffs, three more guards ready at the door in case I do something… reckless. I smile, smug. Nice to know I still have that effect on people. Cash and Parker put the jacket on, tugging it taut, and move around me to tie it in the back.  
“Really, you two! It’s like watching the Moscow ballet… Who needs the Nutcracker when we can do the Straightjacket Waltz?” They’re not kind, tugging and tucking and making it tight. I sigh. “…No trust. So heartbreaking. After all these years…” Cash moves to my front, giving it another tug, and motions to the men outside the cell. I’m led on a chain lead not unlike a dog towards Shrink Hall and read the new name label with interest: H. Quinzel. _Funny name_. They push me down on the couch, which is threadbare and has _certainly_ seen better days. I decide on disinterest and lean back, Cash moving to a back wall to watch over the session. _Safety first…_

The office door opens and in comes the Joker, led like a dog on a leash by the two guards I had met earlier. I stand in outrage. “Is _that_ necessary? He’s already bound!” She points to the metal lead. When they say nothing, I turn my back and roll my eyes, shoving the pen behind my ear when I remember to grab the recorder for this first interview session. Walking back to her chair in front of him, she sits and crosses her legs. “I’m Dr. Quinzel. I will be your new doctor. And you are…?”

 _…Open ended. Smart._ He doesn’t answer, gauging. Careful. Gotta get her down off her cloud, first off. Being unresponsive tends to work well… Behind him, Cash is watching, ready for any sudden movements, his grip on Joker’s chain loose enough that he can move freely within the confines of the couch, but not enough to reach the new doctor. He ignores her protests, because he’s _seen_ what the Joker can do.

He remains silent, those eyes staring at her. It felt a little unnerving, but she couldn’t let on. She had to appear tough in front of these criminals. All she would need is for him to go back to his buddies in the asylum, talking about how frail and defenseless she was. Straightening in her chair, she clears her throat. Glasses slipped down the bridge of her nose as she studies his composure over the top of her glasses. Pen takes to paper, writing down a little note: “Uncooperative”. She looks back up at him. “Okay, then. Let’s start off on the right foot. You do not need to call Dr. Quinzel, if you think that sounds too formal. You can call me Harley, nearly everyone does.” A welcoming smile grows on her lips.

He… blinks. _Harlequin? Really?_ And BURSTS OUT IN LAUGHTER! _Well! That’s the first time a doc tried to come down to -my- level on the clowning front!_ “Are you flirting with me, Doc? Ha ha ha ha! Cash! Get a load of this one!” Cash looks nervous… He shifts on his feet, warning the doctor with his eyes.

Harley made a note: this new office lacked amenities. Like a water cooler. “Mr. Cash? Could you get us a glass of water? With all the talking we’re going to do, I think we need something to keep our throats from drying up.” The guard attaches the chain to the wall and leaves the room to fetch water for both of them. “Well, it’s nice to hear you laughing.” A hint of a smile rests on her lips. She scoots her chair closer to him.

 _…This is an odd duck_. She didn’t seem scared of him, which made him nervous because that _never_ happened. He frowned as she even sent Cash away, and watched the guard go, not really believing it. The chain was locked to the wall so he couldn’t get _too_ far if she had need to run, but if she stayed as close as she was… He turned back to her, eyes of brown meeting blue. _What’s her game?_ he wondered.

He _still_ wasn’t talking. She bounces her crossed leg, chewing on the cap of the pen before trying again. “That straightjacket looks pretty uncomfortable. Seems they’ve given you the works. Leash and a jacket. Would you like me to help undo those straps? Could make this session a little more comfortable.”

He tilts his head to one side, wondering if she means it or not. _Is she really crazy, or just stupid?_ His tongue slips out to tease at his scars… but he decides it’s worth a try. He shifts about, showing his back to her so that she can undo the endless straps and buckles and ties. “They’re there for _your_ protection, my dear. I’m a dangerous man.”

Without hesitation, she moves behind him and begins to undo one strap at a time. The high pitched racket of clinking metal buckles… When she’s content that he’s a bit more comfortable, she sits back down in her seat, crossing her legs and puts on that pleasant smile once more. She leans forward, showing no fear. “So. What were you asking?”

He narrows his eyes at her. _This one is a little tricky to peg. She’s trying to impress me, I think. Odd, for a shrink…_ He tests his arms, and they pull free. He considers it a moment and decides, ‘the hell with it’. He reaches it over his head and lets out a sigh of relief. He smirks. _Stupid little bitch has no idea what she’s doing_. “I said…” And in a flash, his hands are around her throat, pushing at the bottom of her jaw — not enough to kill, but to make it perfectly uncomfortable. His voice is dark and dangerous, a feral growl. “…Are you coming _on_ to me, little bunny…?”

 _Strength! Strength! You can get through this, Harleen!_ His hands are strong, but she can still breathe. Which meant… he wasn’t looking to outright _kill_ her, or he’d be doing so. She smiles softly at him, as their eyes meet. She breathes through her nose in defiance, and makes no choking noises, nothing. She simply takes it, hands still clutching her clipboard and recorder.

He snarls, ready for her screaming, her begging, her pleading, her… _Something_. But instead, bright blue eyes look up at him in something that might be awe. _She’s not afraid of me_ , he realises, and he lets go just as quick, taking a step back. “…Is this a joke?” He warns her with a finger, more unnerved than anything, but he channels it into anger. “I will _not_ be made a fool of! I always get the last laugh!”

“Making people feel foolish isn’t my intention. I’m completely serious.” A hand rubs at her neck where his hands just were. “I need you to settle down. Calm yourself.” The guard returns with two glasses of water. She can see his eyes dart at the lost straightjacket having come undone. He sets the cups of water down and goes to the Joker’s back and beings to refasten them for ‘her safety’. She says nothing as the guard tugs them hard, making sure the Joker couldn’t move. When he’s finished tinkering with the straightjacket, bright blue eyes meet the Joker’s dark brown. “Now. Are you willing to talk to me?”

Scowling, he drops himself back in the chair… A slow exhale as he collects himself. “… _Fine_.”

With an agreeing nod, she presses the record button on her silver device. “Patient interview number one…”

His grin returns. “…So! I’m your first, am I, toots?” Cash’s return had somehow given a semblance of normality to the world. I could _feel_ his nervous energy behind me. It calmed me. “You know what they say: you never forget your first time!” … _If she was going to try and unnerve me with suggestibility, I could do the same_. I usually saved the shameless flirting for men, enjoying the way it made them squirm, but I knew how to read an opportunity and fly with it. “I’ll try to make it… _Memorable_ for you.” I offered her a lewd wiggle of my eyebrows, even.

This criminal was quite the character! She tries so hard not to laugh at his suggestive, wiggling eyebrows and vies for a smirk. She shifted in her seat, giving him no quarter. “Oh, you already have…” she purred. “Tell me, why do you do the things you do?”

 _…Come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time I had a willing partner for a double act._ “Why do _you_ think I do it?” Usually he would spill out into a whole song and dance and story, but right this second he found himself a bit more intrigued by what her first guess would be. He wasn’t ready to admit to himself that he wasn’t exactly sure what story would sell best.

 _Tricky little devil!_ Turning the tables around and asking her questions! The smirk never leaves her face. She takes the pen from behind her ear, tapping at the corner of her mouth, blue eyes looking up at a corner for ideas. “Fame. Notoriety. A desire to stand out from the crowd?” Her smirk grows. “…A wicked sense of humour.”

He gasps. He genuinely gasps. “…You’re _good_.” The demure smile, teasing his eye to those full, red lips… She even avoided the faux pas of assuming I was crazy. They usually go right for the childhood, assuming mommy beat you or something. “How did you figure me out, Doc?” Maybe Cash can’t hear the sincerity in my voice… Hell, I can’t even hear it anymore. I don’t remember what I sound like when I tell the truth, I do it so rarely. “I’ve had doctors poking around in here for _years_ …” …And most of them were idiots and pill-pushers and quoters of their doctrines and scripts and diagnoses… “…And no one was as _astute_ —“ Jesus, when was the last time I gave someone an honest-to-god compliment? This might be a first. “— And if you don’t mind me saying, as _beautiful_ as you!” It’s not even flattery, it’s true — she’s _gorgeous_. So brilliant! So crafty and clever! A woman who knows what she has and _uses_ it. A guy could fall for a girl like that. His eyes glitter in adoration not unlike her own, leaning forward in his chair, echoing her excitement.

He leans close, and her once porcelain cheeks turn pink. “Really? Oh, you’re just playing with me!” She chances a light touch on his leg, brief, before retracting it back into her lap.

An eyebrow shot up on its own accord. _She actually touched me._ No one’s dared to do that in… Well, a long time. Not sure how long, really. She is legitimately coming on to me. Truthfully. This is… He’s more surprised than anything, but pleasantly so. “Well, you’ll never know, will you?" …I lie all the time. It’s impossible to know if I mean it or not. And even if I did, I might change my tune tomorrow. I’m intrigued, impossibly intrigued. But mostly _baffled_. How does one handle a girl like this? The kind of girl who unties monsters and touches them and teases and flirts… Tease back? “Unless…?”

The recorder keeps rolling as she inches just a little closer, eyes wide, hanging on a thread. “Unless what? Tell me!”

He’s absolutely ginning… as he taps his elbow on the tape recorder, stopping it. He tilts his head to one side, not exactly sure if this angel is for real or if he’s dreaming. But it’s enough to unsettle him, and he needs time to think. “Alas, my dear, I think that’s quite enough for one night. It is late, I have evening mess to attend to, and… besides. I’m not as _easy_ as all that.” He wants to believe her. Absurd and twisted as it is, he wants to buy into her con, and to a guy like him, a man who makes a living on playing on the heartstrings of others, knowing that someone has actually pegged him so well is nothing short of alarming. Still… He would _like_ to believe her. At the very least, he’d like to have one night where a pretty girl like her might actually be interested in the likes of him. “I must be _romanced_ , darling. Perhaps we can continue this another day.” Behind me, Cash looks ready to strike, as sure that I’m playing her as I am that she’s playing me.

He speaks and her heart swells. For a dangerous criminal, he was quite the charmer! She feels like a schoolgirl with a crush. A lighthearted giggle breezes past her lips. “Whatever ya say, Joker. I’ll see you at our next session. Have a good night.” His flatter and what-have-you kept her wondering if he was really answering her advances or just playing a big joke on her. It’s something that will keep her up all hours of the night, wondering until their next session…

He regards her as he stands, his eyes soft… Wondering. Not sure if he should dare to hope, but he follows Cash out to the cells. A line from a Tarantino film pops into his head. “The Germans being there was either a trap set by me or a tragic coincidence. It could not be both.” He shuffled his face, tongue teasing at his scars as he furrowed his brown over this new puzzle. This… Dr. Quinzel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, and did I mention? He's kind of a Heath Ledger Joker. I mean -technically- he's very comic book, but for moments of vulnerability, a Ledger Joker out of makeup just works best. I play fast and loose with it, so don't think too much on it, alright? I thought adding in the "little bunny" comment from the Dark Knight was a nice way to marry the two.


	3. Distractions

He is distracted as he eats… Strangely quiet. He only passingly notices that his inmates are watching him, but they’ve learned not to disturb him when he’s having one of his… “quiet” moods. _Harley Quinn. The harlequin. Italian comedia dell’arte. Pretty classy clown, there… One of the originals. The grandfathers of modern clowning. Did she learn that for me, or…?_

All day long, through breakfast, workout, group, then free time, he's thinking about the new doc… He hits the library when he can, and gives the name to one of his police contacts, too, so he can get her car registration, home address, phone number, criminal history… And one to another doc for her medical history. Who was she? Where did she come from? He had to know more before their next session. He hadn’t anticipated meeting her the first night…

* * *

 

I’m almost afraid to admit how long it’s been since I’ve had a woman. I hadn’t bothered trying. I mean… Who looks at me and thinks, “Damn, I wanna fuck that?” I’m supposed to instill _fear_ , not lust…

 _…God. I can’t stop thinking about her. This is going to drive me crazy…_ He runs his hands through his hair.  _Mm… I wonder. Will she jump me, or will I destroy her the first time?_


	4. Patient Interview: The Games Begin

The nightshift. I should have figured that the new hire would work the shift nobody wanted. Scanning my badge, it beeps and confirms I am who I claim to be. The guards open the gates. Always armed. Entering the asylum really didn't feel welcoming. But without fear, I smile and make eye contact with the two guards before they lock me in. High heels click against the hard floor. Making a quick detour just to take a peek at my favorite patient, Mister Joker. Sky blue eyes rise over the base of the door's window but finds nobody in there. Speaking of which, the guards weren't here either. He was out, but where? It was 6:20 p.m.! We have an appointment set up for another therapy session!

Hurriedly heading towards my office, I call Dr. Markus. He informs me that The Joker wasn't acting quite like himself. Woke up when everyone else did and since then, he has been in the library.

Hmm...somehow this criminal had special privileges where he didn't have to be locked up all day if he asked. I take out his criminal history folder and read any accommodations he has been granted. Sure enough, "upon good behavior," he was allowed to spend time in the library or other places in the asylum that wouldn't pose a threat of him escaping.

"I see the list right here. Thank you, Dr. Markus. May I ask that his guard escorts him to my office promptly? We made so much progress yesterday and I don't want to stray away from him when I'm getting somewhere with him." Pacing my office, I wrap myself in my phone cord quite accidentally. When he approves, I thank him and hang up. Taking a seat behind my desk, I take out the hand mirror and apply a fresh layer of lipstick and fuss a little with my hair.

The Joker. Such a charmer. Maybe today would bring us more wonderful surprises... 

* * *

…I’m late for my shrink meeting. I know I am, but I don’t want to seem too eager. The doc was on the punctual side, and it takes a few minutes for them to come and get me. Straightjacket is supplied, and my “escort” is grateful to get rid of his shift. If I remember right, “Ricky Dawson” had come in late a third time in the last three weeks, which got him stuck on Joker Duty. Nice to know I have that effect on people. But it’s a valuable deterrent — if I go loose, my personal guard is the first one I’m killing. “Who do we got today, boys? Young? Wycroft? Maybe that new lady doc… She’s cute, you know. I was the envy of the lunch table today when everyone found out I was her first patient…” McAlroy isn’t as much fun as Cash is… But I think I get Frank tomorrow. Helpful fellow. I’m led to Shrink Hall and… Yes, Dr. Quinzel’s office. “Harley Quinn,” I mouth to myself, and lick my scars. _Now I’m a little better prepared for you, my sweet…_

Footsteps approach outside my office door and I quickly pull the drawer of my desk out and place the hand mirror inside. I smile pleasantly as the guard comes in, prisoner in tow. “Joker! The library today, was it? Did you get some reading done?” She steps out from behind her desk: black pencil skirt, white button-up blouse, black heels, hair up in a messy bun…

She looks good enough to eat. The Joker smirks. “Aww, are you spying on me, Doc? I’m _touched_.”

She smiles. “I simply made a call to Dr. Markus, and he told me where you were. I didn’t go out of my way to seek you out.” She shrugs. “Call the right people and they know exactly where everyone is at all times.”

He harrumphed. A sensible type. “You’re late, you know…” He sits on the couch, grinning. “It’s been a while since I got daily visits. Generally speaking, they avoid me like the plague.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “I’m _dangerous_ , you see. They keep me at an arm’s length. I have a tendency to bite.” He chomps his teeth, eyes glittering with mischief. “Do you bite, Dr. Quinzel?”

She avoids the inappropriate question. “Why do you think people avoid you, as you say, ‘like the plague?’” She pulled out her pen, making a note on the clipboard in her lap, leaning against the front of her desk. Long legs in beige panty hose crossing at her ankles. She watches him over the top of her glasses.

He smirks. “Well, I’ll have to talk to Markus about that doctor/patient confidentiality agreement. He _does_ like to spoil surprises. You should see him around Christmas! Everything has to be x-ray scanned and shaken before it goes under the tree, half of it turns to coal! Truly a tragedy…” He makes a face of woe.

She smiles softly as she jots down another note: self-assured. _Random Christmas reference. Sad about burned presents?_ She pushes her glasses higher on the bridge of her nose. “So… the plague. Have you always thought people avoid you? Since you were a child?”

He gives a longsuffering sigh. “Oh, I _do_ wish you wouldn’t do that. Clearly not since I was a _child_. I didn’t even know what the Plague was back then!” He shifts in his chair, leaning back into the corner to prop himself up, arms pulled tight over his chest and useless, and crosses his legs. “But you’re avoiding my question!” He clucks his tongue and shakes his tongue. “Avoidance.”

She jots another note: _Plague reference NEW. Since arrival at the asylum?_ She tilts her head to one side, curious. “And what question are you referring to?” She taps the tip of her pen onto the paper, transforming the dots on her I’s into small hearts, looking busy.

“I asked if you _bite_ , sweets.” His voice is a low, predatory purr. “You were so forward last night, don’t tell me you’ve suddenly gone shy.”

Her cheeks burn red, and she keeps her eyes on the paper, even though she can feel the darkness trying to peer into her soul. Knowing that if she looked up at him, he would surely know what she thought of him. “Depends on what biting your question pertains to. Everyone bites… to eat. To chew. Food, that is…” She dances around the question in an attempt to sound professional, but when she looks up, she can’t help but admire the enigma across from her, straightjacket and all. The way his mousy brown hair is so carelessly tousled, those sharp chocolate eyes so bright and intelligent, the handsome lines of his face… It was so wrong! But she couldn’t say she wasn’t enjoying the view.

Mm… Stumbling over our words are we? _I have you now, you naughty little minx_. “No, I think you _know_ what I’m referring to. Things that are nice and hot… Smoked sausage, perhaps? Slather it with peppers and onions, bit of brown mustard…”

She cocks a brow at how suggestive he is with his words… Her cheeks turn a brighter shade of red, her heart pounding through her ears. If that guard wasn’t here, she was afraid of what she’d do right now. The way those eyes look at me. Those raised brows of his, and that tone… I clear my throat and decide to avoid _that_ specific question. “Mister Joker. What did you read in the library?”

“E-mails. Watched some cartoons. Attempted Anita Blake, but it didn’t hold my interest. Tried Ian Fleming instead, not so bad.”

She jots these down and nods. “Mmhmm. What kind of cartoons?”

He makes a propellor noise with his lips… Leaning his head back, looking at a far corner at nothing in particular. “The new Micky Mouse shorts, if you must know. They’re still using Bill Farmer for Goofy, makes me all warm and fuzzy inside.” His head lolls to the side, lazy. “Some Happy Tree Friends. I was on Courage the Cowardly Dog when you called.”

She can’t help the high, musical laugh that escapes her. “Okay… And do the people at the library treat you like a plague?”

He leans forward, eyes narrowing. “What’s with the obsession with the plague? That took out a third of the earth’s population at the time, you know. Those viral epidemics are nothing to take lightly, young lady.”

Her eyes twinkle as she smiles. There’s an obvious adoration there that cannot be hidden. “Might I remind you that _you_ brought up the plague first, Mister Joker. You seem to have quite the persona for yourself. Unavoidable. Deadly.” She presses her lips together, licking them before taking a normal expression again. “I’m not obsessed with the plague.”

 _No…You’re obsessed with me_. This girl troubles him. Fear, he can control… Fancy, on the other hand. His voice turns quiet. “You know… They ought to have just obliterated the Plague. A long time ago. Be done with it. But they haven’t. They keep it in storage in secret science labs, studying it, hiding it, storing it for later use. They think they can understand it, fix it… But it’s a _virus_. It doesn’t have a method to its madness, it just _kills_. And yet… They have children’s songs about it. “Ring-Around-The-Rosy” isn’t a child’s folly, it was a way to spread the news to everyone: A ring, a ring of rose: The blemishes you get first, rings of red rash. A pocket full of posies: They used to think posies and other sweet-smelling flowers would scare off evil spirits, or at least give you something better to breathe than the sickness. A tissue, a tissue, is the original line: You would start sneezing uncontrollably, with terrible flu-like symptoms. And lastly… _we all fall down_.” He licks his scars, shifting in his seat. “It’s when we cease to learn from our histories that we are doomed to repeat them. I am not some boy band that you can fangirl over, child. I’m _dangerous_. You need to respect that.” His eyes… There is no passion there, just cold logic.

She bites her bottom lip, listening to him remind her of how dangerous he was… and a history of the plague. She jots down one final note: _Feels people need to be reminded countless times how dangerous he is. Takes pride in how people fear him._ She sighs heavily and caps her pen. “Okay then, Mr. Joker. I think we’re done here. Same time tomorrow.”

He stands, looking down at her with a killer’s eyes. “Don’t play with fire, kid. You might survive, but the damage is irreparable.”

He warms me _again_ and all I do is smile at him! Actually smile! And to spin his game right back at him, I reach up and pat his left cheek, avoiding his scars. “Oh, I know _exactly_ who I’m dealing with. You don’t have to worry about me, Mr. J.” A wink and she backs away. “Sleep tight, Mr. J!” She waves happily at him, almost taunting.

He moves to the door, McAlroy visibly nervous by his little speech.

He looks to Dr. Quinzel like she’s mad, and leads the Joker out. “‘Night, Dr. Quinzel… Come on, you.”

Almost maniacal laughter as she closes the door behind them. Walking over to her desk, she grabs the pen and throws it with a growl. That session went NOWHERE!!! She screams inwardly. Nobody can hear her thoughts, so she screams and shrieks, falling onto the couch, burying her voice in a pillow.

It’s still warm where he sat. She leans back, just as he had, and caught a hint of his scent. He smelt like… talcum powder. Odd. And a very small hint of spice.

As he marches… he worries. _She doesn’t fear me. Why doesn’t she fear me? She ought to fear me. I’m a monster._

 


	5. A Plot

That  _witch_. Reckless creature! She doesn’t know who she’s fucking with! I’ll show her…

The session runs late, so they take him straight to the mess hall for dinner. And yet, he has an idea. He nods to an inmate. “Hey! Jenkins! C’mere a minute!” The guards undo his straightjacket as his meal is made — nothing that needs utensils he can use as weapons. Jenkins is wary, but doesn’t dare ignore him.

“Hey, Jenkins. You get garden priveleges, right?”

“…Yeah.”

“Good. I got a favour to ask of you.” He grins. “How about I give you my rolls for a week and you play florist?”

Jenkins frowns, not getting the joke. But he will.

_I’ve got ya, Harley. You’re not so tough as you think._


	6. Harley Strikes Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The picture in question is a pin-up fanart, which I won't bother to try to link to, since it'll inevitably get cut down, but I'm sure you can pick whichever one you like best and apply as needed.

When he comes back from dinner, he instantly spots the small something on the floor, even if the guards don’t. He doesn’t mention it as they set him loose, leaving him in his room for the night. He waits for them to walk off to their stations at either end of the hall before he stoops to pick it up, whatever it is…

And his eyes widen. He gulps. He checks the guards again, and scurries to his bed, looking to the picture again. Fingertips trace the long curves… His brow furrows, trying to imagine how soft and warm her skin feels, the silk and lace of her panties, the sound of her heels on the tile…

He rests his head on the wall, looking out the glass partition that opens him up to the hall. She should just shoot me and put me out of my misery. But he looks down again, knowing that she’s very good. Better than he had anticipated. I’m doomed, he thinks.

And then… _Well. I know what I’m doing tonight._

 

_“I know you want me. I mean… Who slips a pin-up into a man’s bedroom without intending to be on his mind all night?”_

_“Perhaps it’s a power play.”_

 

He wonders mildly if a guard will check in on him while he’s doing this, and decides he doesn’t really care.

* * *

With Frankie as his escort the next day , the Joker collects a bouquet of roses from Jenkins and slips it into Dr. Quinzel’s office, mildly disappointed that she’s gone home — seems they have her on evening shifts. Explains the late shrink meetings. He leaves a calling card, too, with a note scribbled around the jester: “Come down and see me sometime. ~J”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sidenote: It is strange, and yet incredibly fun to RP a character masturbating. Probably one of the weirdest things I've ever written.


	7. Cozy

She arrives at her office a little later than usual. She unlocks the door and is greeted by a surprise on her desk. There’s a playing card attached to the bouquet of roses. Reading it quietly to herself, she smirks. “Come see me some time, hmm?”

She does her usual routine of fussing with her hair and adding a layer of fresh lipstick. Then she buzzes for Dr. Markus to have the Joker brought to her office for his nightly therapy session. She rearranges a pair of new pillows on the couch, and straightens out portraits she’d put up last night after lights out and she’d had the place to herself. Definitely trying to make the place a bit more cozy for herself… And  _maybe_ her patient.


	8. Turkey Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I for some reason don't have the scene saved, but there's a patient interview in which Joker makes a comment offhand how he would LOVE to be out of Arkham for the holiday, food is terrible, it's bad for his well-being, blah blah blah. Bullshit he normally wouldn't get away with, but Harley is persuasive and manages to convince the Board that it would be a good idea to let him out (on a leash, mind you, and she would supervise him) for Thanksgiving, just the weekend.
> 
> Naturally, this backfires. But this particular scene was a solo from the perspective of one of the goon's. And the kill count will have repercussions once they get back to Arkham.

The Boss's orders were very specific: Norman Rockwell. Nice neighborhood, snow-iced if the weather permits. Big bay window (probably for surveillance and a quick getaway if trouble happens), and a long table to seat at least 8. Him and the "Missus", as we were calling her, me, Rocko, Tito, Andy. I think Marcus had his own family thing to get to, and I know Lars and Vlad have old grandmothers to entertain. There was a grocery list, too -- honey baked ham, not salted, with pineapple if possible. Roast turkey, or deep fried, but none of that beer-battered stuff. Green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, marshmallow-ed yams, that cran sauce stuff from the can, and egg nog. We had actually picked up a couple of gallons of egg nog for ourselves as we shopped, so that was insured.

It took a better part of three hours, but we finally found the place. It was in Otisburg, conveniently enough, and there were a good four generations there. They even had a Christmas tree up already, and we knew the Boss would like that. We called it in as we listened to the chatter - the bird would be ready for dinner at 7. At a quarter til, they started rounding everyone up, and that's when we went in. Boss was _very_ specific that face-on executions were the order of the day -- last thing he wanted was brain jelly in his holiday dinner. He's a man of many sins, but cannibalism isn't usually one of them. The little ones screamed, and we let them run upstairs. I finished off the family while Joey took care of the pigtailed girls. The kill count was something near a dozen, counting the infant and three children. There was a dog that I think ran out the door, but I'll double check with Joey later. He likes to hunt things, so I usually just tidy up the easy ones.

7:05, the table is cleared. The walls are splattered in blood, but a clean kill really doesn't make as much blood as the movies make it out to be. A nondescript white van pulls up across the street, and there's the Boss himself, spats and purple suit and a fur trimmed coat that I think he took off a dead mobster three or five New Years ago. His lady is arm in arm with him, teeth chattering, but grinning, some red and black feathers in her hair, making her look like something out of a Western whorehouse, but we don't judge.

And even if we do, we don't say anything. Been a long time since the Boss had a squeeze longer than two or three weeks, and as long as he's smacking _her_  around, there have been less deaths among us mooks. And we like her a lot for that.

He even has a cane, and it clicks up the stairs as he looks up at the house, eyes bright, mischeivous, and that soft smile that says he approves.

"Well done, boys! Very nice. OOH! And look! They even have a tree! HA! And they said we started too early!"

"Festive, just like you, Mistah J!"

Joey reports the kill count, and confirms that the dog was taken care of. Three kids, two little girls and a boy, and an infant. Three grandparents, one of them a great grandmother. Aunts, uncles, parents. A full party. The table sits 12, and I Rocko pulls out the chair at the head of the table for the Boss.

"Very nicely done, boys. You managed to hit all the demographics! I couldn't be prouder. OOH! And is that a fruitcake? Classic! Alright, everyone, sit down, sit down! Let's get this going, shall we?"

He paints a handsome picture, in his own twisted way. Fresh greasepaint, a fawning lady beside him, and white satin dress gloves as he carves the turkey. We pass it around like the strange family we are, and I grin.

The Boss's ankle cuff is somewhere in Old Gotham on a stray tabby cat. And the van was stolen from a bakery just this morning, and the license plates switched with vanities we keep on hand for just such a thing. Driving through Crime Alley shakes off any watching eyes, so there's no way anyone's going to know where he really went until the start knocking doors. It'll be Saturday or Monday before any of the dead are missed, and by then the Boss will be back in Arkham like a good boy. It does my heart good to watch him kiss the Missus like we're a real family. Nevermind that not a one of us cooked, or paid for this, except with the iron price. But that's what it's like, working for the Joker. You live outside the law, and it's twisted and wrong, but moments like this are worth it. As we sit down to eat, with wine and spiked egg nog, the Boss raises a toast.

"To the founder of the feast! Mr. Bowden, an unfortunate clerk in the Bank of Gotham. And all of the insignificant lives we've laid to rest this day. And to Batman, wherever he is, likely freezing his black tights off in the cold. Gentlemen - and lady. We, at least, can appreciate the finer things in life." He grins. "Like the fact that a meal tastes better when someone else cooks it."

"Here here!"

We eat like starved animals, even as Harley swats at the Joker, and he swats back at her, stuffing his face with more turkey and gravy to spite her. She rolls her eyes, and Morty shows up with a bottle of Champagne half an hour in. We sit in someone else's living room and watch the game, as the Joker checks and double checks and triple checks that the plans for tomorrow are set. Toxin coated donuts for all the Black Friday shoppers, to be passed out around 4 and 5 in the morning, before most of the world is awake, except those greedy bastards, taking whatever they can get. And if a few Salvation Army Santas go kablooie with explosive donations, the more the merrier. Yes, the season is upon us, and the Joker is a very festive fellow indeed.


	9. Suspension

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, there's another missing scene here -- HEY, I WAS COPYING SOLOS, NOT THE FULL RP, YOU HUSH.
> 
> ...Anyway. As Harley and Joker go back to Arkham, J is... understandably grumpy. He doesn't want to go back. And he's being a dick about it. There is also some scene I have somewhere else (long ago enough, I don't remember when) where Joker insists that Harley learns to defend herself, and not be a victim. Someone tries to kill you, you try to kill them right back, and such. He even offers her a gun, and while she doesn't want a gun, she does take an offered blade. He felt better with her being in the safehouse with his brutes (and on the streets in general) while armed. That's his twisted way of being protective -- think about the scene in Face/Off where he gives the teenager a knife, and you'll be on the right page.
> 
> SO ANYWAY. Joker and Harley are in the car, Joker is pissed about going back to Arkham (despite having ditched his ankle bracelet on some stray cat in the middle of a bad neighborhood, killing however many he killed for Thanksgiving dinner, and then the slew of Black Friday shoppers and Santa victims...) and he decides to be a dick to Harley. And Harley gets fed up with him. She even pulls said knife on him, and threatens his life. He's surprised (and aroused), but more importantly, it shuts him up enough to just look at her like she's crazy and go in for processing anyway.
> 
> Because that's important -- her fighting back, and threatening him with a fucking knife. Harley's gaining an edge, and she's not taking his crap, which is important. Too many people make her out to be a victim, when she's probably one of the strongest women in comics, just for putting up with him, and being his dancing mate. She's the only other person besides Batman that he bothers to work with for any significant amount of time, and that means something.
> 
> Sure enough, he goes through processing and she goes to her office. As soon as she gets there, there's a summons to the principal's office, and she knows she's in trouble...
> 
> Also, this solo was written by my wonderful wife and Harley. And I think they were INCREDIBLY generous, assuming the girl was just getting in too deep, and needed some time off. I don't think they really think she was in cahoots with him quite yet...

A heavy sigh escapes Harley before she finally pushes herself off the couch and exits her office. The Board wanted to speak with her and she was sure she knew what about. It was only seven in the morning and the screams and cries of Arkham Asylum were just as they always were. Passing door after door, glancing quickly through the windows at the patients. Some standing with their heads against the padded walls. Some were actually hitting their heads against it. And some were simply sitting up in their beds, legs pulled up to their chests, talking to themselves. And strangely enough, she feels like she can begin to feel their helplessness after everything she has been doing lately with Jack. Especially that little bit in the back seat of the car. What had gotten into her? There was that eerie feeling of being set free when she had done what she did. As if she was no longer caged up to society's standards. She was her own person for those few minutes.

That was absurd. It was wrong. That wasn't really her, was it?

The double doors to the Board room tower before her menacingly. The nervousness begins to settle, smoothing out her pencil skirt and adjusting her medical coat. There's obvious signs of restlessness strewn about her features: bloodshot, hooded eyes, no smile, and a long yawn takes over her before she pushes through the doors.

"Morning, everyone. I was just about to go home and rest. Can we make this quick? I'm exhausted..." Without thinking, she reaches up into her updo, thinking of running her fingers through her own hair (one of her many nervous ticks), but ends up ruining the style as the messy updo falls around her face. She blows the strands away and tucks them behind her ear. Obviously, a complete mess.

"Harleen Quinzel..." It was the fat, balding man who believes the Board is made up of just him. The stuck up, egotistic pig. "We had a deal. We made a deal that we would allow you to have The Joker out in your care for one week for the holidays as long as he wore his ankle tracker. For a while, you were doing wonderfully on your part of the deal, making us proud! But, that was only until last night. We found the ankle tracker, Harleen..." The man's eyebrow shot up accusingly. "...around a cat wandering the streets of Gotham. DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH OF A PANIC THAT STARTED?!? A MASS MURDERING CLOWN ON THE LOOSE IN GOTHAM WITHOUT HIS DOC?!? We had _plans_ , Harleen! We were beginning to think you were a stand-up girl! Young, but gutsy in your field. And then _that happens_  and ruins it all! They only way that ankle tracker could have been taken off was by _you_. Harleen. This is a punishable offense! This may very well cost your job! What have you to say about all this?" His tone drops. "And it better be good or else we'll take away your certification to practice, you'll lose your job, and you will never be hired again in any mental health facility..."

Harleen's mouth opens to speak, but no words come out. At least, not at first. She looks like a fish out of water as the seven pairs of criticizing eyes watch her like she's the most undesirable, disgusting insect they'd ever seen. Maybe she was. Maybe she wasn't cut out to being a shrink. But a job was a job and she really needed to keep this. She'd say anything to keep it. To keep a steady income.

"I don't know why you insist on making me out as the bad guy! I had who was named the most dangerous criminal in Gotham under my care and I brought him back, as promised! I didn't undo the ankle tracker! Do you _not_  know how brilliant the guy is?!? He's a genius! Before pointing your finger at me for everything that went wrong with this operation, you ought to get to know the patients in the facility you run _first!_  He probably took that ankle tracker off when I wasn't around. I _did_  have to shower and I wasn't going to have _him_  joining me!"

She avoided mentioning the fact that she _was_  there when he took the tracker off. That wasn't an important detail they needed to know. Nor was the fact that if he had joined her in her showers, she wouldn't have minded. " _These damned thoughts! Get out of my head!_ " Blinking erratically over what she's screaming to herself silently.

"He could have left, killed _more_  people during your 'shower', and come back to where you guys were staying and you wouldn't have known! Blood is on _your_  hands on _your_  watch, Harleen!"

Her teeth clench, hands balling into a fist. "He's a grown man! I'm _not_  his babysitter! Contrary to popular belief, The Joker is a grown man who can take care of himself for half an hour while I shower. He knew the rules! Ultimately, I got him back here! So, just be happy!"

A freshly inked newspaper is thrown at her feet. On the front page, there's a picture of the family that had been murdered for the benefit of Jack and the Thanksgiving dinner tradition. Bending over to pick it up.

"What if he did something to this family, Harleen? They've been missing since Thanksgiving. Coincidence?"

Harleen throws the paper back at him. "Not a coincidence! Just further proves that there are more psychos out there in Gotham! Not just Mister --" Eyes widening, correcting herself, "Joker!" Why was she even standing up for him? "The entire time we were out, he was on his best behavior aside from taking off the ankle tracker. He looked like an excited boy on Christmas morning when we were out of this place. It was good for his mental state! He wouldn't do a thing like kidnap that family if he wants a chance at freedom from this hell. Like I said, he's smart!" Sure, the paper said "Family Missing" and nothing about murder. They hadn't found any traces of blood or anything. Joker's boys must have done quite the meticulous job at cleaning up after the massacre.

"Harleen Quinzel, the fact that you brought him back will allow you to keep your job. However, at this point in your juncture, you will be suspended for a week. One week with pay. One week to get your head together. I don't know if you were listening to yourself, but you were standing up for a psychotic killer _clown_. Whatever it is you two have going with this new, unorthodox practice, it can't be healthy for you. So, you are not allowed back at this facility for one week. No less."

"But! I have _patients!_ " _Joker. Joker. You have Joker!_ "My patients need me!" _Jack needs you!_ "You can't do this to me! I have to work! I'll lose my progress--"

The heavy set man laughed. "Look at you! You're just about as insane as the rest of these patients. Here I'm giving you a week off with pay and you _still_  want to come to this place. You really need a break, Harleen."

"No! No, I don't! I'm getting closer and closer with this treatment! Really getting the underlying facts as to why The Joker does what he does! You can't have me gone for a week! He's going to think there's something wrong! He's going to go crazy if I'm not here! You have no idea what one week away from me will do to him!" She's begging, pleading, walking towards the table. Hands clenched tightly at the edge. "Please, you can't suspend me. I did nothing wrong!"

"True, you did nothing wrong...but just look at you, Harleen. You're a mess. It's not normal for doctors to be on call as much as you are. Let alone, on call for the most notorious criminal we have. See this suspension as a gift."

He hands Harleen a slip of paper saying she cannot return to work until December 6th. She growls and rips the paper into tiny pieces and throwing them at the Board, making it snow paper at the man who served her. Her voice sounds sinister, sneering, leaning across the table towards Hefty Boy.

" _This_  is going to be the _biggest_  mistake you will ever make!"

He laughs and points at the carbon copy of the paper that she can't rip. "Go on, Harleen. Get some rest."

She stomps her heel and leaves furiously. Slamming the door behind her and marching back to her office. When she returns, there are already two guards ready to escort her back to her car. "Are you _serious?_ " They're armed with guns. Probably still afraid from when she actually got hostile towards The Joker in his cell that one time.

"Okay, okay. Wait a minute." Taking her phone out of her purse, she sends a quick text to Jack.

_They put me on suspension for one week because of your tracker being on the cat. Smooth move. Guards are here. Armed. About to take me to my car. I'll see you on December 6th. Stay safe, Puddin'._

Sending the text before sliding her phone back into her purse with a heavy sigh. "Okay, boys. I'm ready for some sleep. And if I hear about any of you physically harming my patient when I'm gone, you won't have to fear The Joker. You'll have to deal with me. Understand?"

The guards nod and follow behind Harleen to her car outside. They even wait to watch her car drive away from the asylum before they turn around and return into the establishment.

"Worst mistake this place will ever make. That man is a ticking time bomb ready to go off at multiple occasions. I wouldn't be surprised if he does something completely reckless when I'm gone..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Did I mention the scene in the cell? Harley goes to J's cell when he's being particularly belligerent, and they get into a lover's quarrel, you might say. She actually physically attacks him, which scares him (purely for the fact that no one else has the nerve, and he really wasn't expecting it) and he was without shrink visits for almost a week. It's after this that there's an apology that I -think- leads to the Thanksgiving agreement. I can't recall, I wrote these so long ago...


	10. Angels & Demons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you -not- cursed with bipolar disorder, let me tell you that lithium is not fun. For the first few days, you feel like you're voluntarily poisoning yourself, and you're ready to hurl up your entire lunch if the car so much as hits a bump. Lack of appetite, migraines, depression, mood swings, anxiety, insomnia, this dread like someone is after you, for no apparent reason... It really fucking sucks. And I wrote this -before- I went on the stuff. It's the depression and paranoia that hurts you the most, like there's something lurking in the dark, waiting for you to trip up so it can get you. Torture you, make you suffer long and slow. It's terror, pure and unreasonable, and you hate it so much you want to blow your own brains out to make it stop. Not eating makes it worse, but the illness ruins your appetite. So you end up sitting there and forcing yourself to eat at least -half- a bowl of cereal that tastes like cardboard, and muscle down a full glass of water before you slip off to sleep. Because the meds are -supposed- to make you drowsy. It's a godsend when it works.
> 
> Now, imagine you're Jack White, maniac with a death count innumerable, that phantom child you never had hanging over your head, and the survivor's guilt of a wife that died because of your unfinished job. That's a lot of tangible guilt for the demons to feed on. Statistically, 60% of those diagnosed with bipolar (or as it used to be called, Manic Depression) will die by suicide. This is a glimpse of those dark nights.

It's the midnight hour. Or one of them. Lights are out, and it's quiet, but for me. But for my chatter, my laughing, my jokes. Rehearsing, I want to call it, but it's nervous talking. I try to laugh the demons away when they creep too close. They still get in, they still whisper cruel, dark things to me, reaching for me, touching me, clawing at my skin. One has a fondness for fondling my face, and I can feel the pucker of flesh there, where the demons took a knife and carved into me, claiming me, marking me. An unwilling pact that I can never take back, and they come now, in the dark, when the rest of the world is sleeping, but my mind will never rest.

I make a desperate joke, the ringing of my voice in the cell an anchor of sorts, contrasting with the silent murmurs of things that aren't truly there. Hallucinations. Delusions. It really gets to you in the dark. I'm trying, but tonight they're winning. Stupid, stupid! Didn't eat today. Or yesterday. Might be going on three or four days, now. Not hungry, the meds they give me, it does things to my appetite, and sometimes I am just too lost in my own thoughts to notice the food, to fight with fingers that don't want to touch, too slimy, too greasy, too unpleasant, dreading the bathrooms that are worse. It screws with my head.

Sometimes I have an angel to watch over me. I imagine she says sweet things. Sometimes she tells me about her day, pretend we have a family, a real life, and that all of this is a terrible nightmare... But on nights like tonight, the demons get to me first, telling me that _she_ was the terrible nightmare. A stench of dilapidation and poverty, conflicting promises that never came to fruition, a surreal responsibility hanging over my head, the dread, the fear, the desperation... The living hell. This is quiet in comparison, but no less maddening. I'm still dreading a thing that will never come. Sometimes I don't remember what it is, or that it won't come, but the anticipation still torments me with fretting and worry.

"HELP!" I move to the bars, something in me breaking. I don't want to fight this all night long, hollering and carrying on, wrestling for the shredded remnants of my soul into the wee hours until the guards tire of me and gas me to sleep. I want it ended _now_. "HELP! Someone! HELP!"

"Go to bed, Joker," a guard drawls.

"I'm TRYING, damn you! Jesus, haven't you ever heard of insomnia?"

"Only every night. Shut up and go to bed."

I strike at the wall with my open palms. It's not terribly loud, but it helps with the anger. "I want help, damn it!"

"...You really shouldn't talk with him. He'll just chatter on for hours if you do."

"Right?" He yawns. "I'm just tired."

"Can't believe the rest of these coots can sleep with all his ruckus."

"Some of them get earbuds for good behaviour."

The two bastards chuckle at my expense, and I'm snarling. "I SAID I NEED HELP, DAMN IT!" I slap my skin on the glass for a solid SLAP! but they don't pay me any mind. "I need my doctor!"

That catches their attention, and one moves to me. "What'd you do?" His tone is accusing, and he flips on the light in my cell.

I shut my eyes a second too late, and I'm blinded by the garish white light, and raise my arms to hide from the assault. He takes my moment of reflex to give me a once over.

"You look fine to me," he says, confused.

"Oh, there's _plenty_ wrong with me," I warn him, my voice dark. "You could have blinded me!"

"You'll live." He turns to go.

"WAIT!"

He doesn't wait, but keeps going.

"Come on, I'm serious! I want to see my doctor!"

"There's nothing wrong with you!" he answers back.

"Oh, come on! Isn't Harl— I mean, Dr. Quinzel in tonight? Doesn't she usually work nights?"

"Don't know, don't care," the guard answers, returning to his post.

"I warned you. He thinks he has a conversation, now."

"Well, he can fuck off. I'm not interested."

I bang my fists on the glass. "Damn it, I wanna talk to my Doctor!"

...They don't answer me. I rant and rave and kick a while, taking my frustration out on my stuffies. It's not as satisfying as a real neck, but it helps. And while I'm raging at the guards, the demons are entertained.

It's not the same as an angel, but it helps. I tire myself out enough to actually sleep, but I'm sure that I would have gotten the best rest in her arms. In the dark and the quiet, I think of Harleen. No, _Harley_. My Harley girl. Harley Quinn. I hug a bear, wishing it was her, and wishing she were here... Wishing she could hold me and hide me from the demons. Say sweet words and pretty lies and fool me into believing them.

My laughter was loud and ringing, but my tears are quiet, hidden. It doesn't fix the problem, but it helps. It's too late for me to be cured. All I can get is treatment. Treatment and distractions. Dreams and hallucinations. Because they're kinder than the truth. The truth that is too cruel to bear. The demons mock me, always there. I promise myself to eat tomorrow, even if it's flavourless gruel. I will eat my fill, and see if a full stomach will keep them away next time. Maybe. For a while, anyway. And tell my Doctor that they're no good for me. She can't help the demons, but she can help the appetite, right? Yeah. We'll tell Doc tomorrow. She can help.

Doc always helps.


	11. Frankie Valli

You can tell it's lunch by the cat calls. It's a whooping cheer that starts at one end and makes its way down the hall, louder and louder until everyone knows -- that and the gnawing at your stomach, and the faint smell of something that might have been fresh when they left an hour ago at the beginning of the run. There is most certainly some form of food quality law that they break by running all the food the way they do, but they've limited manpower and a really big cart, so someone's gonna get cold food. Since you screwed up enough to get in solitary, seems fair that it's you. At least, I imagine that's the logic, if there is one.

"Settle down!"

"SETTLE!"

It's been a restless day. Scribbling nonsense into the floors with a spoon, no ink or blood to make it stay, just a mindless, endless motion with no end result. I imagine I've concocted quite the magnificent plan with which to end the Batman, and maybe my unstable doctor, but it's all just brainstorming. I'll let it ruminate and ferment and evolve between now and the time when I can actually write it down. By then I will have something good, I just know it.

When I can hear the cart itself, I decide to be a monkey, climbing up the holes in the bulletproof glass that are there for restraints and shock rods and air holes, like some captured squirrel in a child's cardboard box. I'm not in good form right now, but I never let that stop me -- I cling to the top, slippers and claws in the miniscule grips, joints red from the pressure. When they finally come past me to give me lunch, they only note my odd position with passing interest.

"Hey boss! Can I get a banana?!"

Frankie's working today. He scowls at me, and raps my knuckles with a baton. I remove said hand, and hang to one side, and drop before he can get the other, pressing my hands and face to the glass.

Rosco knows that Frank's my guy. We all pretend that it's all discreet, and Frank pretends that he takes a slice out of all the pies without preference, but they would just laugh me off as a narcissist if I told them most of his dealings were for me.

"Seems we're calling you Mr. White now," Frank tells me, picking a parcel from the cart and sliding it into my box. He pulls the lever, and it pops into my cell. I don't look at it.

"I've killed men for less," I warn him, but it's that kind of cold fury that anyone who knows me, knows is my worst kind. The sane kind of angry, not the manic. Manic, I get sloppy. Sane, I am precise and ruthless, and you'll die in the kind of painful way that doesn't draw blood. I watch him watch his partner, and he steps closer.

"Heard you've been acting up lately."

"I think they put something funny in my Thanksgiving turkey. How's the family?"

"Still alive. I got a message for you from your girlfriend."

" _Ex_ -girlfriend. Bitch can't bother to do her damned job, don't know why I should care."

"That's actually the point." He acts really cool for someone talking to a man as dangerous as me. "Her husband has got real suspicious, took her on an unscheduled holiday. No warning."

That catches me off guard, but I don't show it. Maybe Harley might have seen that flicker of doubt in my eyes. "Holiday?"

"Few days. Met her at the door with bags, and they started for Jersey. She didn't have the chance to tell you in person." That's why he's so cool. They warned him I'd be taking this badly.

When my fingers wrap around the little grips, it's so I don't throw something, because I really want to. I tap my head against the glass, closing my eyes. "When did you hear this?"

"Couple days ago. But... Wasn't working 'til today."

My eyes flash open, green and flaming, my lips a snarl. "You knew, and you didn't tell me?"

He rolls his eyes with a little huff, moving his feet, nervous. "Hey, it was a holiday weekend. You want me to tell my wife I gotta go in the office on a holiday weekend? She'd slice me. We were in Boston with the in-laws. You think I wouldn't _love_  to not be there?"

I purr, quiet so only he can hear me. "I'll do a lot more than slice you, Frankie. I hope you enjoyed your last _family holiday_  together." It might be an idle threat, but who's to know? I might change my mind later.

"Well, she'll be _back_  on Saturday. Until then..." He drops not one, but two decks of cards in the slot, knowing I've already destroyed almost three of them. "Try not to be such a brat, will ya?"

With a roar, I slam my fist on the glass! It's too small for me to reach through, or I'd have had his throat. He blows me a kiss, chuckling as he pushes the cart down the way.

I hurl another couple threats at him, but by now he likely thinks he's too useful to me alive to die. He's wrong, of course, but underneath the rage, a disquieted part of me breathes a sigh of relief.

Doc hasn't abandoned me. It doesn't fix things, but knowing that she's not here because of the system makes me feel a little better. _Saturday_ , I think to myself, and I hold on to it like a promise before picking up my lunch and investigating it.

Mystery meat pasta. Goodie. For the first time in three days, I actually eat my lunch. I am careful to pace myself, or I know I'll make myself sick, or choke on it.

 _Saturday_.


	12. Solitary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recap: Joker's back in Arkham after the Thanksgiving Holiday (weekend off), and he's in solitary. Harley has been put on "paid medical leave" (order, not an option: Suspended) and for the last couple days, Joker has not been made aware of this. Actually, quite honestly, he's about ready to murder the 'useless bitch' (his words) for playing this cold shoulder game with him again. He finally found out today (see: Frankie Valli) but it's not stopping him from going on revolt. In fact, now it's just giving him more incentive to act up, because maybe it'll get him his Harley back sooner, in essence proving Dr. Quinzel's point. I actually really love the Waller note that it's not so much that Harley needs Joker as the other way around, even if that manifests itself in some really disgusting ways. What follows is graphic, and I warn you, pretty terrifying. I needs must remind you that this is the Joker, and that there is a trigger warning in here for torture, rape, and a wide variety of medical horror. Because this is the Joker. In case you forgot, THIS IS THE JOKER, who prides himself in breaking rules. Also, he has been previously shown to 'take' women on at least one, and arguably two occassions. One being Azzarello's Joker, and another being the Killing Joke. Now, am I going to graphically depict rape in this SL? God, I hope not, because it's really not fun to write. It's a very powerful, horrifying thing to go through, and must be treated with the respect and delicacy it deserves. Speaking as a victim myself. But I will likely reference it. This one will make you sick, but it twists around near the end. Call me crazy, but there's a line between outright abuse and BDSM that #MadLove likes to shamelessly destroy and dance around, delusions of devotion and mental illness being what they are. I have to really pound home the fact that, though the Joker and Harley Quinn are two of a kind, they are not the same thing. Harley is her own creature. Sure, he may have broken her, but the creature that came out of it is a truer version of herself, not an imitation of him. That's very important. The morse code thing was actually a thing in No Man's Land: Cataclysm, and the idea intrigued me, so I thought I'd include it here. If there is a Riddler out there that wouldn't mind continuing the scene, feel free to reply. Special honours to @TwistedDocHarls and @CrazyCrimeClown for inspirations here and there -- you will be able to spot it when you see it. And if you keep in mind Evey's torture from V For Vendetta, you'll be on the right track.

I'm off my meds.

They know I'm in a sore mood, and they're not stopping me. They've still got me on the pills, so all they really do is slide me a little cup of prescribed candy. I know what they do: mood stabilisers, antidepressants, antipsychotics. When they work, my thoughts are quieted to a manageable level, and I don't feel like my skin is buzzing with a thousand million swarming little bugs of unconscious thoughts and energy. I'm tapping, tapping, tapping, moving, all bouncing and wandering, short-lived thoughts. I sit and ponder, I mutter to myself, I quote things, I wonder things, I think and feel and say things.

...My thoughts turn to her. They aren't kind thoughts. Thoughts of how she could leave me like this, why she turned on me. I think of how she straddled me, and I just want to wrap my hand around her throat and fuck her until she screams. I think of the knife at my throat, and how I should have pressed myself into the blade and see if she really meant it. A part of me is outraged, and I want to throttle her to death, to see her gasping, mouth open and begging, eyes bugged out, as the little blood vessels in her face burst and her skin bleeds like when they go extra extra high on the brain flossing. Part of me wants to see her pass out, only to dump ice water on her and bring her back and _do it again_. See how many times I can kill her and bring her back before the useless wretch doesn't wake back up. I want to grab her, shake her, demand an explanation, demand an apology, demand a _price_  to be paid for all this.

I want to punish her, and I'm not sure exactly how I want to do it.

Maybe I'll give her a taste of her own medicine. Maybe I'll poison her, choke her with pills, strap her to a table and zap the every-loving shit out of her lying, fucking skull. Maybe we'll put her in a straightjacket and lock her in solitary for a few weeks and watch her quietly go insane. No clocks, no regular mealtimes. We'll leave her for two hours, and then nineteen, and watch her descend into madness when it all become an unreliable, unconscionable blur. We'll make her sick and toss up the meager meals we give her. I and the boys, I'll dress them up in their nice white coats, stained with the blood of innocents and we'll cut into her like biology students. Incision here, an implant there. Maybe I'll even let her watch, wide-eyed and horrified as we put some foreign object inside her, and watch her try to claw it out in desperation and panic. We'll watch her get feverish and beg for water, beg for something to help the heat, and then we'll leave her in an ice bath for four hours, until her lips turn blue and her hands are gone and she can't move her limbs. We'll pick her up like a boiled egg, wrap her in a towel, and dump her back in the stone hard cell, shivering and dazed and crying, naked and ashamed, until her tears dry up and her throat doesn't work, and she doesn't even respond when we bring her lunch anymore.

And then we'll call her crazy. Tell her how unhealthy it is that she sits here in the dark all day, and how she should do something to make herself better, as if we had given her any chance. And when she goes to find help, we'll offer her concerned, compassionate ears, before someone else comes back with a tranquilizer, and it starts all over again. She'll beg us to stop, and we'll tell her, "It's for your own good", and we'll call her by some name that isn't hers, and _insist_  that she refer to herself as Mary Silvesterson, and bring in some man she's never met before and tell her how it's her real family, and that they want her to come home, if she would only give up the foolish fantasy that is her _life_  and buy the lie.

And if she plays along, we'll promise her she can go home. And the next day we'll call her crazy again, and give her a different story, based on whatever poorly collected evidence and fan theory we have.

We'll watch her break down to the fundamental animal urges. Food, sleep, regurgitate, repeat. She'll ask to see sunlight, and we'll lock her in an empty room with a window that shows only an alleyway and another wall. Or maybe we'll put her in a room with a mirror and a chair and a table, and we'll let her think that there's someone on the other side of the glass, and just leave her there for hours, wondering, hoping, begging that someone save her from this hell. We'll put little cameras that I'll program to move here and there, as if it were alive, or if someone were watching her, but when she demands medical attention, we'll ignore her. We'll even let her destroy it, dose her food, wait for her to pass out and _repair it under her nose_. HA!

Maybe we'll even tie her to an operating table and have our way with her, claiming the 'traditional treatment of hysteria'. She'll even enjoy it, and hate herself for it. She'll feel used and disgusting and worthless, and yet her body will ache for the sweet pressure of it. She'll mewl and crave it and beg for it, desperate, greedy fingers and shameful tears, wanting more -- even from monsters -- rather than be alone.

Oh, and we'll give it to her. Cruel and rough, hard and unkind. We'll call her names, take without concern to her own needs, insist she pleasure us in the most disgusting ways. I'd even be so cruel as to pick some sweetfaced boy to make slow, sweet love to her, promise her he'll help her get out of this hell, and then she'll never see him again.

We'll not bathe her for days, wearing old, gritty, dirty clothes that smell of piss and shit and sweat and sick. She'll beg us for a bath, until she gets so desperate she would wash herself in the toilet. And then we'll break the plumbing. We'll take her to some cruel, cold, white-tiled bathroom, and we'll rip off her clothes and force her to stand, naked, shamed, and spray her down with a hose like an animal. Someone with strong hands will scratch into her scalp with soap that we won't bother to keep out of her eyes, and she'll be whipped if she fights. It stings all the more on wet flesh, and we'll rinse her off in cold water, shivering for a long five or ten minutes until her teeth are chattering and she's curled up in a little ball before we rub her down with a tiny towel until her skin is red and raw, and then give her dirty clothes again, and back to the cell.

...I'll break her. Let her know what I really think of this profession of hers. The kind of abuses that I have had to endure every day, and maybe when she's really seen what I've been through, we'll see if she still thinks she wants to be with me, through _every thing_. And that's just the asylum. We'll train her to be a good little slut and let anyone fuck her that wants to. It's just a body. It's a vessel, and it can be used with or without your consent. She'll detach, sure. Become not there, or she'll cry and feel pathetic after, and moan about how bad the world is. And when she's done with that, she'll learn to accept it. And maybe, just maybe, if she's strong enough, she'll get vicious and fight back, and hell, I'd like to see that. To see her eyes flash with such animal fury, until they label her 'too dangerous' and sedate her into submission. See how many cocks she has to clip and cut, how many faces she has to scratch up before they learn that she isn't a wild mare to be tamed, but a demon you cannot control. I want to see her use her body for _gain_ , to not be ashamed of it. To come out of it stronger, better, faster, tougher. To not be afraid to be a slut, or a whore, if it's what's needed. To make her own decision if she'll let herself be a victim, or if she'll come out of it better.  
I want to see her _decide_  if she wants to eat or not. To starve herself for days, just to see if she can. To find some way to hold on to her own sense of reality even when the guards are fucking with her mind and coming at odd intervals. To eat when she wants to eat, to sleep when she wants to sleep, to do whatever the fuck it is she wants to do, without being caged by their status quo. I want her to be able to endure whatever physical tortures they can throw at her, and perhaps even enjoy the sport of them. I want her to laugh when someone throws a punch, to take the hit, to send it back at them. I want a girl who can sweet talk a guard, execute that one, and pickpocket a third without them even knowing. I want her to push her limits, to go that extra step, to test that boundary until she is living outside of her own comfort zone, and basking in that freedom.

I need a girl who has no rules to break. A girl to whom cocaine and meth is just another kind of candy, a taste you get a craving for, without letting the drug become an addiction. A creature who has had their reality stripped down to their very core -- instinct, survival, and the knowledge that death is not the worst thing that can happen to you -- and then really _appreciate_  life!

Appreciate life, and know also that it is fleeting, and can end at any time. To know Death as a friend, and still choose to take the harder option. To understand that ambition is a competitive streak, not a survival trait. To be painfully aware of how small a space your body can be crushed into without dying, and see an alleyway as an open courtyard.

To appreciate that life is meaningless, and yet singularly fantastic in its own right. To go through so much transformation, to have so much invested in oneself, that you _cannot justify death_  without a greater purpose behind it. How could you have endured such trials to die over a pittance as a gunshot wound? You gotta be tougher than that! When your bones are like confetti and your skin so covered in scars that there is no clean flesh anymore... To know that the mask is not the mask, but rather a way to bring better attention to the self, the inside, the _soul_. Eyes, lips, mouth -- they are but fleshy appendages that we use to our benefit, like fingers and toes. What does it profit a woman to be beautiful if she is also weak and stupid? Dolls are pretty, and useless. And they are destroyed easily.

I want to break her. I want to destroy her, and remold her into something much more like myself. And yet, I don't want her to be me. I don't want her to be _anything_  like me. I'm a broken, mutilated, terrible, beautiful thing, but I am not to be cloned or copied. Emulated? I would have her walk in my footsteps and learn from my ways, yes. But I would not have her be my double. I would have her be her own creature. To invent her own thing as a phoenix is reborn from ashes. I shall merely set the flame, but if she rises again, it will be of her own doing.

...I lean my head back against the wall, feeling the cold stone beneath me, and my hands are still. I can feel my skull against the walls, just as I hear the grinding of my teeth, and my eyes focus on the sink before me. I roll my vision to one side, and see the glass that both keeps me in, and keeps them out. I know this hell. They've tried every way of punishing me, and now they just leave me to rot in silence, because it never works.

It's sometime between lunch and dinner on a Tuesday afternoon/evening. I am consciously aware of a ticking clock somewhere in the hall. They want me to think I am alone, but I am not. I can hear the snoring of the cellmate three doors down, and the one on the other side of the wall (I can feel a crack in the surface on my shoulder blades, and I shift against it to scratch an itch) is grumbling to himself. I rap my knuckles against the wall, a query, and listen quietly for a response.

 _I feel better_ , I think to myself, my meandering, manic mind shuffling through so many forms of violence and heartache and torture and love all in its own disheveled fashion. They would think me mad if I told them I would abuse her to make her better, but the hilarious thing is, it would be the truth. My mind is a dangerous terrain, and it's best that I don't have amateurs attempting to navigate its treacherous fault lines.

...To my surprise, I get a "yes".

It's Morse Code, a skill I taught myself long, long ago on a whim as a child, and yet is incredibly handy.

Who is this?

...I bark out a laugh when I get the answer "Riddler".

...Yes, I feel much better, now. Especially now that I have an audience. Harley will be back, and maybe one day I will work on some of those fantasies, but not today. Instead, I tap my knuckles on the wall, turning in my bed to leave an ear on the wall. Company always helps.

What did you do this time?


	13. Patient Interview: First of May

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually probably one of the oldest pieces of #MadLove fanfiction I've ever written. Something like 7 or 8 years ago, I think. And yet, still a favorite.

"Good morning, Mr. J," she greeted, a pleasant smile on her face. It fell a bit as the Clown Prince of Crime merely flumped his body into the seat, his hands idle in his lap, and a scowl on his face. his only response to her greeting was a rough grunt as he glared daggers at the once-eggshell white walls.

"How are you feeling today?" She tried not to make her concern so obvious, but the guards didn't seem to care either way. The door clicked shut before he spoke.

"A bit down in the dumps, to be honest," the Joker replied. His face held a look of genuine disappointment. "My birthday was two days ago, and no one said a thing."

Harleen Quinzel immediately reached for his file and sought out the pertinent information. Under 'date of birth' were four seemingly random dates (which varied even by year) — three had been noted from alias IDs confiscated during his past arrests, and a fourth that were from a medical file that was generally accepted as 'the best guess'. None of which were —

She felt a smirk tug at her lips. His face was the picture of innocent melancholy as she quirked a brow at him.

"The First of May, Mr. J?" she cooed, letting the rhyme roll off her tongue, the long vowel sound pulling out her Jersey accent.

The 'huhuhu' of his laughter filled the room, and warmed her heart.

"Damnit, Harley, can I get _nothing_ past you?" His eyes were sharp and glittering, even without the clown white that made the chocolate gems sparkle even more in their setting. He licked his lips at the deliciousness of it all, and Harley allowed herself to savour his joy.

"I confess, Mr. J," she said, adopting the sad tone, "I truly had forgotten all about it. I had meant to get you a gift, but..." She gave a small shrug.

His eyes watched her with an expression she couldn't quite place, but her best guess was that... he was waiting for something. A punch line, perhaps.

For a long moment, they sat that way in a strange test of role reversal, the man in chains trying to figure out the doctor. It didn't take long for his patience to run out.

"Oh, what's it matter? No one else would get it." He seemed to smile, but it was a quiet, subtle thing. If anything close to a true smile could be found under that demonic grin of his. As much painted and forced as the clown he idolised. "Just you and me."

"Quite right, puddin'." And then she leaned back, and propped two bulbous shoes on the desk.

For a split second, he was stunned silent at the sight of the clown shoes, bubblegum pink with yellow butterfly stitching and the biggest, most adorable bow tying them to her slender ankles. Red and white stockings slipped up under her heather grey skirt, which was tucked up a little higher than should have been wise for doctor-patient relations.

When he licked his lips this time, it was for a different appetite. "Harls, my dear, you positively slay me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who aren't clown/circus nerds, "The First of May" was, traditionally, the beginning of the circus tour -- as in, the first show of the year would be on May the First. The circus didn't travel all year, but were a seasonal thing. Nowadays, this is largely true, with the exception of Ringling Bros., which tours 11/12 months out of the year (with December off) -- but their Red and Blue shows run two-year long tours, so the winter mid-tour is a month off, and the winter at the end is for training the new show -- headquarters in Sarasota, FL are the usual "Winter Quarters". Gold show is seasonal, but it also has a shorter run. Most other circuses (as few of them as are still out there) run seasonally.
> 
> Although the First of May is not necessarily the beginning of the season anymore, it is still a tradition among circus folk (and especially clowns) to refer to the new guy as the "First of May" for his first year on the show. This applies even to hometown clowns who are merely on their first year of clowning. Accordingly, this is a clown joke, and one that only Harley would really appreciate, but I rather liked the idea of her being overly prepared for it.
> 
> The clown shoes in question were actually the inspiration for this piece -- there's a company in Mexico that -my- boss clown bought his shoes from, and I was looking at the variety of styles they have, and I saw a pair just like this that I thought were absolutely adorable, if not my style. Harley took them instead.


	14. Patient Interview: 5 Actresses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An exercise in subtext. Also, because I just have to make some kind of reference to Heath Ledger/Brittany Murphy being a dream casting of Joker and Harley. Had to. Somewhere. Also, this is another one of my oldest solos, not affiliated with the RP, but still worth sharing.
> 
> Also: April 25th is Joker's birthday via his comic premiere. Which is also, interestingly enough, Batman and Catwoman's premiere, because they were all featured in issue #1.
> 
> Added Note: If you're watching the #Gotham tv series, Jerome makes reference to his birthday being in the spring, which is a nice little wink-wink-nudge-nudge to Joker lore.

"Mm... Questions?"

He considered it a moment, and nodded. "Alright. We can do questions."

"Alright... What is your _actual_ birthday?"

He chuckles. "Ah, Doc... That's a question about the _past_. You know that the past doesn't matter."

"Ah ah!" She twitched her pen. "It's a present question, too. And future. What if I wanted to get you a birthday present? It would be a future question."

His chains rattled as he scratched behind an ear, frowning lightly. "...You make a fair argument." He looked to her notes. "What dates do you have?"

"I have..." She smirked. "Well, May the First." He grinned. "February 19th... April 25th, December the 12th, and November the Fifth."

He giggles. "Oh, remember, remember, the fifth of November," he murmurs in rhyme. "The Gunpowder Treason and Plot... I know of no reason why the Gunpowder Treason should ever be forgot."

She gives him a lopsided smile, and scribbles a note. "Not that one, then."

He chuckles, "No, I think not. February 19th... Mm. I think I was feeling sacrilegious that day. Just after Valentines, but such an odd number. I'd hate to be born in February. Twelve Days of Christmas." He sighs. "May the First is the traditional start of the season, but it's the closest. April the 25th, actually, I think was the real one." He narrows his eyes, as if trying to remember the way a joke went but only remembering the punchline.

She blinked at him. "...So we really _had_ just missed your birthday."

"Hmm?" He looks up. "Oh. Yes, I suppose you had." He picks at something in his teeth, and massaged his mouth over it. "Not like I celebrate it all that much." He smiles. "When I have so many unbirthdays."

She made a note... the correct date, lack of celebrating, doesn't he even remember? But also that he'd made another Alice in Wonderland reference.

"Alright, Joker. Your turn. You get to ask me a question."

His humouring smile split into a mischievous grin. "Name five of your favourite actresses. _But_..." He warned her with a finger and raised brows. "When I say 'favourite', I mean you think they're _hot_ , not because they're in any way talented or otherwise."

She laughed. "That's an odd question."

He shook his head. "Nope! You agreed. You must answer my question. I answered yours."

She wrinkled her nose. "I don't know if that counts as a question."

"Harleen Quinzel," he gasps. "Are you _cheating_?”

She blushes, biting her lip. "Do _not_ call me by my full name."

"You call me by mine," he replies, wiggling those forest green eyebrows. Why _green?_ It looks so odd without the greasepaint. Like he's some kind of troll. 

"I do not, you haven't given me your real name."

"Of course I did. I'm the Joker. It's all you need to know. Come on! Five actresses. And I _will_ critique."

She laughs, leaning back in her chair, turning it idly. She hums, thinking... "...Madonna."

His head jerks. “ _What?_ Madonna's not an actress. She's a musician."

"She's done a little acting!" she argued. "Here and there."

Rustling chains as he points at his mouth with a finger. "With the buck teeth? Come on."

"Her body is in _very_ good shape," she argued, feeling a little sassy. "I mean, that video with Britney Spears? She looks _good_."

He smirks. "Ehh... Alright. I'll give you that one. Only because suits. You have a thing for suits, I notice."

"Girls go crazy for a sharp dressed man," she purrs.

"And lady, apparently..." He chuckles. "Alright, that's one. Four more."

She twirls again... This time really thinking. "...Nicole Kidman."

He shrugs. "What hair colour?"

"...Red. Definitely the red. That ginger she had in Practical Magick was lovely. Fantine in Moulin Rouge, too."

He nods approvingly. "Nice. She's got very... angular facial features. That's why half the time she's casted as a witch." He laughs, a rich, merry sound.

She giggles, too. "Yeah..." They both quiet as she ponders another choice. The sounds of the room are the light squeaking of her chair as it turns, the rattling of the air conditioner, and the light jingle of his restraints as he rearranges himself.

"Zooey Deschanel."

A brow rises. "That one has _eyes_."

She grins. "Yeah. Big old baby blues."

He nods... eyes dark. "That's three."

She smirks... _I got you on that one_ , she thinks. It's little ways. The way he stops fidgeting or pretending he's totally at ease in a space, but rather is watching her with rapt interest. He wants to hear more, and she is grinning, loving the control she has over him.

It's really hard to think of women when she has a man like that watching her in that way.

"...I can't think of anything."

"Oh, come on, Doc. You got three. Two more."

 _Damn you_. She keeps turning. "...Brittany Murphy."

"Ahh... Britney Murphy. May she rest in peace."

"You're not arguing with me anymore."

"Why would I argue with Britney Murphy? It's a good pick. Her in Sin City? Fuggedabout it. Sassy, brassy little thing. She almost makes me want to stay in the asylum."

They both share a chuckle over that one. It's easier now, as she nibbles on the end of her spectacles... the bright red frames at sharp angles, her fingernails painted black. So were his, when he came in. He's been back a week, now. The paint's all gone by now. But maybe not on his toes...

 _Damn it, can't think!_ She huffs in frustration, and there's the quiet sound of his chuckle. _Insufferable_ , she thinks. _God, he's so... EURGH._

WOMEN. Movie stars.

"Scarlett Johansson."

He sputtered. "What Scarlett Johansson films have you seen?"

She grimaces. "Two?"

"Yeah, you're picking her cos she has huge tits. Come on, this is a list for _you_ , not for me. Stop bullshitting me, Doc. Come on. You got four."

 _How does he do that?_ she wonders, narrowing her eyes at him. How could he tell it was a copout answer? No one could see through her lies like he could... Always a challenge.

She sighed, and thought again.

"...Julia Roberts."

He made a face. "The teeth... That mouth. I can't. She looks like she ate a pumpkin."

"Okay, sure, the mouth is all... stretchy and weird. But that's just it. She's not exactly pretty. I mean... She's got that ridiculous laugh, this... _crazy_ hair. Freckles all over her nose, that horrible mouth... Her face is so _plain_. And yet... When she acts, she's always so... awkwardly sassy. She's _real_. And when her heroes fall for her, so do you. I mean, Best Friend's Wedding. She's terrible for him, but she tries, she tries _so hard_ , to make him happy, because she's scared. I mean... If that's not the truest romcom ever, the way it _really_ happens... And she's up against _Cameron Diaz_ , who is just as goofy and terrible, and it's so _real_. And her desperation, the way she teams up with George, who tells her to just _get over it_ , and that whole... 'He has you on his pedestal, and me on his bed'. She's so _real_. And when she cries or gets scared, you feel it. You want to wrap her up in your arms and help her. And when she gives you those shy eyes, you just want to _kiss_ her."

He's staring at me. Not... incredulous, but calculating. He doesn't blink. Bright brown eyes sparkling behind that ridiculous green hair, enough oddity that he doesn't look real. He is — I _know_ he is, but he doesn't _look_ real.

...He doesn't speak for a moment, he just leans back, fingers entwining around each other. Finally, he nods. His voice is soft. "Good answer, Doc. Your turn."

I'm supposed to be asking the questions, and yet it's answering them to his satisfaction that makes me feel victorious.

"Alright. Name me your five favourite actors."

The sound of his laughter is like music to my ears.


End file.
